


Of a Feather

by Jaydeun



Series: Nests [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Nests, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 03:17:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: “I—didn’t dance. Or, uh, build a bower, but what I mean is—" What *did* Crowley mean? They were just sheets and blankets. But they were warm and soft. And safe and dark. And he’d built a nest in his flat because that was the closest thing he could manage to being right here, right now, with Aziraphale and the candles and the warm light of everything he wanted. But that was a lot to say in one go. “Angel, I love you. That’s what I means.”





	Of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to Bower Birds (and other things that Nest)

The candles burned low in Aziraphale’s bower. Crowley had helped move the sofa from the rear of the shop to the makeshift gavotte stage. It was dark, and warm, and the gramophone played Beethoven softly behind them.

“So your nest,” Aziraphale hummed. He’d been slowly tracing the rim of his wine glass. The vintage was just as good as Crowley remembered, but neither of them had over-indulged this time.

“Go on,” Crowley encouraged.

“Well, can you tell me about it? What is it like?”

Crowley had sunk rather low into his end of the sofa. He walked his shoulder blades up the back cushion to try and straighten, gave up, and sunk down again.

“Sort of like this? Warm. Soft. But with more blankets.”

“No dancing?” Aziraphale asked. It was a strangely fragile question, even if a silly one. Crowley sat up on purpose this time, and set his wine aside.

“‘Fraid not. There are pillows, though.” He said, and while he didn’t really mean to, his eyes strayed to Aziraphale’s soft thigh just inches away. When they made it back to the angel’s face, it was to find him smiling shyly. Aziraphale tapped his lap in invitation.

“Seriously?” Crowley asked, but didn’t in fact wait for correction. It was too damned inviting. He rearranged himself, legs tossed over the opposite end, one arm dangling to the floor, and head resting ever so gently against Aziraphale (who had happily removed his sequin coat). He meant to be a light touch and not be too much of a burden. But then Aziraphale rested his hand upon Crowley’s head, and aimless fingers began finding trails through his hair.

_I’ve died. I’m dead._ Crowley heaved a sigh and melted.

“You know,” Aziraphale said above him, “I think it began on the bus.”

“Mmmph?” Crowley said, meaning _What began on the bus?_ Of course, Aziraphale translated perfectly.

“The restlessness. The _nesting_, as you so helpfully called it.” He continued running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, which was making it very hard to concentrate, though he did _try_. Aziraphale looked into his eyes. They weren’t just blue, Crowley decided. They were oceans of blue in every shade. And right now they were shining at him. “I—that is we—held hands. Do you remember?”

Of course Crowley remembered. He would never forget it. It had been impulse, almost, instinct—gripping each other for ballast as the only sure things left in the world. Then they’d spent all night working out The Plan, at least until Crowley passed out on the sofa. He’d woken up with Aziraphale’s face, and everything else happened so fast after that it never came up again…But yes, yes, yes, he remembered.

“I do,” he said, voice slightly husky.

“I just felt so restive after,” Aziraphale admitted; he looked at the distant shelves. “I thought I had a feather out of order; I even put my wings out to check. All fine. So I started that untidiness you found me in.”

“Awful mess,” Crowley murmured faintly. Didn’t mean to sound that way, but Aziraphale was grazing his lovely nails right along Crowley’s scalp. _Don’t stop—please, oh, Somebody, don’t let him stop._

“Well, the most magnificent thing happened, you know. When _you _arrived, it all went away. I felt perfectly fine, I said so even.”

“Tickety-boo,” Crowley agreed.

“Yes, absolutely!” Aziraphale beamed down at him. “Then when I came home again, it all rushed back—but I found if I just focused on things _you_ liked, I was wonderfully productive.” He used his free hand to gesture at the plants that now surrounded them. “I may have gotten a touch carried away. And then, well, then I found the recording.”

His hand had stopped stroking Crowley’s hair, and he suppressed a murmur of protest. Above him, Aziraphale appeared contemplative, as though choosing his words with care.

“So. I just danced,” he said, finally, with a shrug. _A shrug. _Not an excited wiggle, not a breathless compression of delight. Crowley felt a sudden cold weight in his stomach; he was allowing Crowley room to discount it. To deride it. Aziraphale had just been so wonderfully vulnerable for him, had danced and spun and courted. _And what did you do, Crowley? You bought fucking pillows._ Crowley lifted himself, swinging his legs around. He knew it would surprise Aziraphale, so he reached out and grasped the angel’s hand before surprise could turn to alarm.

“You bloody well did,” Crowley said, twining their fingers. It was his turn. He knew that. His turn to do something real and hard and exposed. _Just say it. _Except that was so much harder than he expected.

“I—didn’t dance. Or, uh, build a bower, but what I mean is—"_They were just sheets and blankets. But they were warm and soft. And safe and dark. _And he’d built a nest in his flat because that was the closest thing he could manage to being right here, right now, with Aziraphale and the candles and the warm light of everything he wanted. But that was a lot to say in one go. “Angel, I _love _you. That’s what I means.”

“You—you _do?_” Aziraphale asked. His eyes shone like he might cry, and he’d better not or Crowley would fall to absolute fucking _pieces_. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand more tightly.

“Since ever,” he said. Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hand to his heart.

“Oh Crowley! But I love you, too, ever so much!”

“I would hope. You just performed a mating dance for me,” Crowley said. But he wasn’t laughing. He was crying, and it was embarrassing as fuck. Aziraphale reached his fingers to touch the salty tears.

“And you liked it?” he asked, so, so hopefully.

“I loved it, angel.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and long lashes glistened slightly in the iridescence of almost tears. When he opened them again, the slight shine of his ecstatic gavotte had returned to them.

“What now, Crowley?” he asked. “We don’t lay eggs.”

And _now _Crowley was laughing. They were having all the emotions tonight, apparently.

“No. But it does seem like something more is called for, yeah,” he agreed. “I could—eh—kiss you. If you liked—”

He liked, apparently, because Crowley hadn’t gotten the sentence out before Aziraphale’s fingers tightened in the fabric of Crowley’s shirt and pulled him close. Knees, chest, and soft lips pressed against his own, and Crowley lifted hands to cup Aziraphale’s face. It felt like electrical surge, warmth and joy that radiated outward from the touch but inward, too—like letting go of something, but also like clutching it so near it lived inside you. Crowley sheltered in that warmth, wordless; Aziraphale hummed against him, warm and pink and blushing. When they broke the kiss, they were a tangle of limbs on the sofa, Crowley draped over Aziraphale and nestled against his chest.

“Yes, that—that seems more the thing,” Aziraphale said contentedly. “Just the right finish.”

“Oh angel,” Crowley sighed, snapping his fingers. A comforter twice the size necessary for just the two of them appeared out of ether, snugging them into a den of down fluff. “It’s just a beginning.”

Aziraphale hugged him closer, in their newly-appointed nest, and Crowley felt himself relaxing into what promised to be his sweetest sleep… where he knew he’d dream of whom he loved the best.


End file.
